


the loveless generation

by princessoftheworlds



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Curses, M/M, Minor Character Death, Police, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Serial Killers, The Tesseract (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-21 21:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12466584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: It's two years after the fall of the Triskelion, and someone's out in Brooklyn murdering men who look like Steve.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Lorde's "Hard Feelings/Loveless" track

Something has been lurking in John O’Conner’s peripheral vision all day. He’s been feeling the general sense of impending doom, the strange  _ swoosh  _ of air in your stomach when you feel like something’s going to go wrong.

His wife Alison calls it bullshit.

_ You’re just being a dramatic little bitch _ , she told him while they ate dinner only a few hours earlier.

They both came from rather wealthy families settled in Manhattan and attended the same cushy private boarding school before separating for college. They returned home, John as a finance advisor and Alison as an interior decorator, got hitched, and purchased a vintage street-facing brownstone in Brooklyn where they live with a snobbish French bulldog named Marty.  

Neither of them have ever encountered  _ real  _ danger, the kind that messes with your head and unnerves you to the extent that you no longer feel safe in your own home.

But, still, John can’t shake the feeling that something or  _ someone  _ has been watching him, and it’s been affecting him since morning.

His corner office, on the floor his firm owns in a pre-war Manhattan building, faces an open doorway into the stairwell. Every half hour, he’d look up compulsively, feeling the prickling gaze of some onlooker, but he never saw anyone. During lunch hour, he shook off offers from his co-workers to go dine with them at some French place, and, instead, dug into the quinoa and kale salad Alison had packed for him. While he was walking to where his Mercedes was parked in the parking structure’s third floor in the evening, unease forced him to quicken his pace, and, once inside his car, he pressed his back to the soft Italian leather of the driver’s seat and locked his car doors, double and triple-checking them.

Now, he sits in front of the television, staring blankly at the show that Alison selected from her Netflix queue, sharply aware of the curtained window opposite the couch he’s on that looks out into the street.

“I brought the wine,” Alison singsongs as she makes her way into the living room, holding a wineglass nearly filled to the brim. “With the day I’ve had, I definitely need it.”

John dimly recalls her complaining about some difficult client during dinner.

“What are we watching?” she asks, settling down on the couch next to him before shifting to press herself against him. The wine splashes dangerously in the glass with her every move, and John finds himself watching it anxiously.

_ That wine looks alarmingly like blood _ , he thinks before frowning and shaking the abrupt thought out of his mind.

“Gossip Girl or something similar,” he tells her and watches his wife adoringly as she gets drawn into the mindless, complicated plot of rich teenagers backstabbing each other.

With both of their hectic lifestyles and professions, their evenings are the few moments they get to spend together, and while John can feel his body settle as he cuddles with his wife, his mind is still on edge.

When Alison excuses herself to go to bed with a suggestive glance at him, likely hoping for a quick romp in the sheets before they fall asleep, John bows out. “Maybe tomorrow, Ali. I’ve got a little bit of work to finish up.”

She pouts. “Alright. Come to bed soon.” She languidly stretches her lithe limbs like a cat as she rises from the couch. Hazel-eyed, straight-nosed, and brunette, she is the most beautiful woman that John has ever seen, and, immediately, he almost regrets his refusal.

Alison pads in the direction of the stairs that lead to the second floor, and John follows her after cleaning up the last of dinner and Alison’s wineglass, except, instead of heading straight to their bedroom, he turns down the hallway to his office.

He drops into his comfortable chair and flips his laptop open but can’t seem to concentrate on the reports he’s supposed to be typing. Trying to distract himself from his buzzing mind, he fiddles with the caps of pens that litter his desk.

_ CRACK! _

John startles, the pen slipping from his grasp and clattering onto the desk. He jumps up from his chair and races to the window of his office, pressing his face to the glass and straining his eyes to make out anything in the dim illumination of the streetlamps.

There’s no following noise, and he can’t identify any figures, motionless or moving, but his heart won’t stop pattering like a runner’s shoes pounding against pavement.

_ It was just the tree _ , he reassures himself.

There’s a large tree outside their house, and its branches reach up to tickle the window. Maybe a strong breeze knocked a branch against his window, even if it’s completely illogical for there to be wind towards the end of May.

He returns to his desk and busies himself with his work, dismissing any creaks that sound from around the house as the house shifting and settling.

Everything’s normal.

John stares at his laptop screen, fingers poised over the keyboard as if, any moment now, the motivation to resume his work will strike, but his eyes begin to water soon from staring at the open Word document for so long.

He sighs. “I won’t be getting any work done tonight.”

John ducks into his office’s adjoining bathroom and stares at his reflection in the mirror underneath the too-bright fluorescent lighting. His blond hair is disheveled beyond belief, his red-rimmed and watery eyes look more grey than blue, and there is a shadow of scruff creeping up his square jaw. He rubs a hand against the rough skin, deciding that he’ll shave first thing tomorrow.

His chest feels tight and the air in his lungs is dry; his skin feels stretched tight across his face.

Exiting into the hallway, he pokes his head into his bedroom. “I’m stepping outside,” he calls into the darkness, not bothering to check if Alison is awake and has heard him.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, John heads for the front door and unbolts the latch before turning the lock. He only hesitates for a split-second before slipping through the gap of the open doorway but makes sure to leave the door propped slightly open. He wanders to the edge of the curb, squeezing between Alison’s convertible and his Mercedes to sit on the pavement.

The fresh, slightly chilly nighttime air tickles his nostrils as he inhales deeply, counts to ten, and then exhales.

He sits there for about ten minutes before finally deciding to get up, but, just as he does, there is the quiet scuff of a shoe against the cement sidewalk.

John stiffens, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, every molecule of his body vibrating with alarm and sheer terror.

“If you touch me,” he says slowly into the night, making sure that his voice will carry to the stranger, “I will scream as loud as I possibly can. My wife is asleep in a house that is less than twenty feet away. We have neighbors on either side. They will hear me.”

There is a low, dark chuckle from the stranger, and John’s stomach roils.

“Feel free to,” the stranger tells him in a quiet, rough voice.

Then there are  _ sudden quick steps  _ moving closer to him. Something silver and metallic streaks in front of his vision as a hand reaches for him. And John releases a  _ bloodcurdling  _ scream.


	2. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s wrong?” Steve asks.
> 
> “There’s a fucking serial killer on the loose,” Lopez explains, voice tight and frustrated.

There’s just the slightest scruff of leather boots against the fire escape outside, but by the time Steve dives for the gun taped underneath his kitchen counter and whirls around to cock it, Natasha has already slipped in through his apartment window.

“What are you doing here, Natasha?” he asks bitingly.

“Just visiting a friend,” she replies coolly as she glances pointedly at the gun in his hand.

“It’s been over two years,” Steve snaps, trying and failing to keep the undertone of bitterness and hurt from seeping into his words.

About two years ago, the Avengers finally laid waste to the last HYDRA base in Sokovia, ending HYDRA’s decades long reign of terror that should have died when Steve went into the ice. Steve moved out of the Tower to be closer to Sam who was in Harlem, and Natasha would visit them frequently until one day, a few months later, she simply vanished back into the shadows.

The redhead sighs, but she makes no move other than leaning against the unpainted wall, examining her nails, until he finally rolls his eyes and shoves the gun into a drawer. Natasha straightens, drawling, “We both knew it would happen eventually. I was never cut out for domestic, public living.”

“You didn’t even leave a note,” he states, gritting his teeth, not hiding his feelings of betrayal. He grabs a plate from his sink and moves to place it in the dishwasher.

For her part, Natasha does wince, jade eyes flashing with a brief glimpse of pain and regret, but she remains composed and speaks again:

“I found Barnes.”

Steve freezes and slowly sets the plate back on the counter. “Are you sure?” he asks slowly, lips drawing together to press into a tight line.

“There was a body found in an alleyway in Brooklyn,” Natasha tells him, and Steve’s blood chills in his veins in icy terror. “It wasn’t him,” she rushes on to reassure him, “but he might have been responsible for it.”

“Where?” Steve demands.

“Outside of Korea Street Eats.”

His breath catches in his lungs.

Korea Street Eats is, as the name heavily implies, a high-end hipster Korean street food place, but Steve and Bucky knew as the site of the tenement building where Steve first lived with his ma when he met Bucky.

“He remembers,” Steve breathes.

“I don’t think so,” Natasha says dryly. “You’re not going to like this, Steve.”

//

She brings him to a sleek, glass storefront building with opulent double doors barricaded by crime scene tape. A lone police officer leans against a squad car parked on the curb in front of the restaurant.

When Natasha attempts to lead Steve into the building, the officer steps away from the car. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t let you go in there; there’s an active police investigation inside.”

Before Natasha can interject, Steve steps in front of her. “Excuse me, officer. I’m sorry, but we believe that the crime that occurred here could be connected to one of the Avengers’ enemies.”

The officer looks flabbergasted before quickly stuttering, “Of course, Captain Rogers! I didn’t recognize you at first!” He stands tall and salutes Steve.

Natasha shoots Steve a smirk, and he resists rolling his eyes, instead smiling tightly at the officer, who stands there awkwardly for a few moments, hand still raised, until Steve realizes what he’s waiting for and salutes the officer back.

“Perhaps you can lead us in, Officer Flynn,” Natasha suggests slyly, reading the officer’s name off his lapel.

Officer Flynn looks sheepish. “Oh, yes. Sorry. Follow me, Captain, Ms. Romanoff.” He lifts the crime scene tape high enough for Steve and Natasha to duck under and move into the lobby, where they wait for the officer to pass them. He leads them through a luxurious dining room and a gleaming kitchen with stainless steel surfaces catching their reflection until they slip past another doorway labelled with crime scene tape and into the end of an alleyway. “Wait here,” Flynn tells them before disappearing down the alley. He returns with a young Latina woman wearing a sensible pantsuit and flats. “This is Junior Detective Lopez. She’s lead on the case.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Captain and Ms. Romanoff,” the detective states as Officer Flynn reenters the building. “The body was found early this morning when a jogger stumbled upon it. She called us, and we arrived on the scene less than twenty minutes later. We interviewed the jogger, but she has no connection to the case.”

“Who’s the victim?” Steve asks curiously.

“The victim,” Detective Lopez says, “was formerly known as John O’Conner. New York native. Lives in this area in one of the multimillion dollar brownstones. He was a financial advisor who came from money. His wife Alison called in his disappearance this morning, said he stepped out to get some fresh air. She woke up this morning to find that he never came back in. She already identified the body and is being questioned down at the station.” Her eyes narrow perceptively. “If I may ask, Captain Rogers, what exactly are you looking for with this case?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Steve admits, “but the scene of the murder may give us some more indication.”

“Of course.” The detective sighs in resignation but turns to bring Steve and Natasha further down the alleyway. She stops right where the crime scene tape has sectioned off the rest of the alley and lifts the tape so that Steve can pass through, Natasha behind him.

There are some uniforms supervising a coroner as she takes pictures of the crime scene, blocking Steve’s view of the body.  

“Dr. Morales,” Detective Lopez calls, “could you step back for a minute to let the Captain look at the body?”

The coroner nods and retreats to the police van parked at the end of the alley, and, now that he can finally see the victim’s body, Steve’s lips press together so tightly that they begin to turn white.  

The body is unnaturally pale, clad in casual clothes from the feet up. There are rings of purple bruises around the wrists and bare elbows; the fingernails on the hands are torn but not bloodied. The body ends at the neck where a high shirt collar covers the stump, but the blood has already seeped into the light cotton, and there is no denying the violence of the injury. The head itself was placed casually next to the body, and the police have not disturbed it once. The face is pale, but the bottom lip has been bitten deep and torn, and the eyes stare unseeingly at the opposite wall. The jaw has similar patterns of bruising as the elbows and wrists.

The body is not even unusually gory; Steve has lived through a war and an alien invasion after all, but he shudders, _because Bucky knew exactly how to target him_.

Death’s a great disguiser, but Steve recognizes the golden-blond hair despite the scarlet soaking and coloring the strands, sees the similarities in the square jaw, knows that those now colorless eyes had likely been some shade of blue.

John O’Connor must have lived some life being told that he looked like Captain America; he even grew up in _fucking Brooklyn_ like Steve.

“Steve,” Natasha says, tugging gently on his sleeve and directing his attention toward the opposite wall.

Steve turns his head but is then forced to take a step back out of pure surprise and shock.

_TIL THE END OF THE LINE_

is written ominously on the brick in the drying, flaking blood of poor John O’Connor.

“No,” Steve murmurs under his breath in distress. “No, no, no.” He takes another half a step back, shaking his head slightly. Thankfully, Detective Lopez and the rest of the police are clustered together at the van, so there is no one but Natasha around to watch Steve’s reaction.

“Steve?” Natasha repeats, voice pitched as to not carry down the alley.

“He remembers,” he tells her. “Bucky definitely remembers. Only he would know what this means to me.”

Natasha is kind enough not to ask him what _this_ means, but she purses her lips.

Officer Flynn comes hurrying down the aisle, sidestepping Steve and Natasha. “Detective Lopez,” he calls, waiting as the detective comes striding up to meet him.

“Yes, Flynn?” The detective arches an eyebrow, crossing her arms across her chest.

“The 84th Precinct sent over a caseload of files to the station. Apparently, this case matched one of the profile of a homicide they had last week,” Flynn states.

“Oh, shit.” Lopez squeezes her eyes shut, running a hand over the bridge of her nose to massage her forehead. “Ah, the fucking paperwork that’s gonna come with this one.”

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks.

“There’s a fucking serial killer on the loose,” Lopez explains, voice tight and frustrated.

Natasha grabs Steve’s arm and pulls him to the side, whispering into his ear. “This isn’t the Soldier. HYDRA would have taught him to avoid catching attention. He wouldn’t kill twice in the same vicinity; it would draw too much attention. This is him flaunting his freedom in the face of HYDRA’s protocols.”

“Who is he then?” Steve ponders, his rational mind racing to connect the dots as he ignores the undercurrent of grief washing over his heart in a tidal wave.

“Not Barnes and not the Winter Soldier,” Natasha says, eyes flashing. “He’s somewhere in between, and he’s dangerous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters will be posted over the course of this week with the final chapter being posted on Friday. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/).


	3. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time either of them ever said _until the end of the line to each other_ , it was Steve’s eighteenth birthday, and his mother wasn’t recovering from her tuberculosis. They were sitting on the rooftop of the tenement building where Bucky shared an apartment with a co-worker from the docks. Steve was in no mood to enjoy the fireworks they were waiting for, not with his mother stuck in a sanatorium.
> 
>  _Whatever happens_ , Bucky told him, _we’re in this until the end of the line_ , before leaning over to press his lips to Steve’s in their first kiss.

Almost two months later, and Steve’s desk is littered with files. Each folder tracks one of Bucky’s several victims.

There’s the first, one Benjamin Bennett, a bouncer from a nightclub who could have barely passed for Steve in the right light. He was found in a warehouse that used to be Bucky’s favorite dancehall to frequent with his dates, where Steve would occasionally, reluctantly, tag along.

Next is John O’Connor, who looked the most like Steve.

But Matt Larkins-who had been a professor at CUNY- had cornflower blue eyes and a short and skinny build and was found in the basement of the Steve Rogers Museum, the tenement building that housed Steve and Bucky’s first apartment.

Nick Reynolds was a construction worker with the same straight nose and jawline as Steve and was murdered inches from the docks where Bucky had worked.

Finally, there’s artist Nathan Burke, his body dumped only feet away from what would have been the doorway of Steve’s favorite bar.

Every man has been beheaded, and at each crime scene, a wall has been painted with TIL THE END OF THE LINE in blood.

The police are at their wit’s end with this case; they have no fresh leads. Every couple of days, Detective Lopez will call Stark Tower, hoping for more information about the Avengers’ association with the killer, only to find zilch.

Steve himself is not able to reconcile these egregious, gory deaths with the last time he saw Bucky, still clad in the water-soaked leather of the Winter Soldier, metal arm crusted with blood, hair plastered to the scarred and bloody skin of his forehead, eyes bewildered, pained, and large like a cat’s, a literal mercurial sea of emotion.

 ~~Bucky~~   ~~the Winter Soldier~~ Barnes is definitely trying to send Steve a message; Steve just can’t piece it together.

//

“There’s been another one,” Natasha informs Steve once he answers his cell phone. He opens his mouth to reply, but she barrels on. “This one’s different.”

Steve gapes for a moment before shutting his mouth with an audible clack of teeth. “How so?” he asks, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he wanders into his closet in search of a shirt.

“The message has changed. I don’t recognize it, but I think you will.”

Steve slides his closet door shut. “I’ll be there in ten.”

//

Barnes could not have chosen a worse alley in Brooklyn, Steve muses as he recognizes the grid of streets. He quickens his pace, striding down the street in a matter of seconds thanks to his powerful legs. He reaches the mouth of the alley, and, for a moment, his eyes rove over the uniformed officers sprawled over the crime scene, but his mind doesn’t register them.

It’s 1925, and a chubby-cheeked James Buchanan Barnes is reaching a hand towards a skinny Stevie Rogers who kneels on the dirt floor, tiny stains of blood smeared on his loose fists.

 _I didn’t need your help_ , Steve tells James stubbornly. He’s a small, bony thing with baby-soft golden hair and a frown, proud chin jutting out stubbornly.

 _I didn’t do it to help you_ , James states cleverly. _The O’Leary boys were hollering at my sister Becca last week, made her cry. They just needed a good beating._ He smiles toothily at Steve, revealing straight teeth and a gleam of blood. _My name’s James Buchanan Barnes_. He says this proudly, wearing his name like a title.

 _That’s an awful name for a kid_ , Steve decides, still frowning.

James scowls slightly. _Well, then. Lemme hear yours._

 _Steve Rogers._ Steve finally rises to his full height and stares James solidly in the face, despite only reaching to his collarbones.

James’s back to grinning widely. _Nice to meetcha, Stevie._

 _It’s Steve,_ the blond corrects him, irritation seeping into his tone.

The older boy shakes his head wildly, proclaiming, _Stevie and Bucky. We’re a matching pair._

 _Who’s Bucky?_ Steve asks, wrinkling his tiny nose.

 _I am!_ The self-titled Bucky stretches his hand even closer to Steve. _Well, whaddaya say? My pa bought me some marbles. Wanna come play?_

Steve stares at Bucky’s outstretched hand with the history of the universe swirling in his baby blues, as if he understands that this choice will define his life. _Sure!_

“Steve?” Natasha asks as the sound of children’s laughter fades from his ears, and he refocuses on the alley to find her staring at him with masked concern written in the curl of her lips and narrowing of her eyes.

“Fine,” he replies monosyllabically. “Just distracted.”

“Alright.” She takes one last look at him before returning to Detective Lopez, this time with Steve following.

“This is Ethan Hill,” Lopez announces as they hover above the body. “A Brooklyn transplant from Missouri. Moved here for an internship. Had barely been in the city for two weeks.”

Steve allows his eyes to briefly roam over the now-dead Ethan, searching for any familiar facial features but, for once, there is only the similar hair and eye coloring. “What’s different about the message?” he asks.

Lopez’s eyes flash. “Turn around and see for yourself,” she states dryly. After six different investigations for the same murderer, she has slowly lost her patience.

The blood pounds in Steve’s ears as he understands why Natasha claimed only he would understand the message.

THE FIRST TIL THE END OF THE LINE

//

The first time either of them ever said _until the end of the line_ to each other, it was Steve’s eighteenth birthday, and his mother wasn’t recovering from her tuberculosis. They were sitting on the rooftop of the tenement building where Bucky shared an apartment with a co-worker from the docks. Steve was in no mood to enjoy the fireworks they were waiting for, not with his mother stuck in a sanatorium.

 _Whatever happens_ , Bucky told him, _we’re in this until the end of the line,_ before leaning over to press his lips to Steve’s in their first kiss.

And, in the moments that followed, Steve knew Bucky’s promise to be true.

Now, Steve waits on the very same rooftop on his ninety-eighth birthday, the sky darkening to a velvety-black night around him as the people below him begin to light their fireworks.

The watch on his wrist keeps ticking away as impatience bubbles up uncontrollably in him.

The rooftop door swings open with a squeak and shuts loudly; Steve’s head snaps up in response, his eyes feasting on the new arrival.

If Steve had passed him on the street, he would have never recognized Barnes.

His long legs are encased in the navy-blue silk of his suit, and the expensive white cotton dress shirt barely stretches over his broad shoulders and bulky muscles. Polished brown leather dress shoes, no tie, the three buttons of his shirt popped open to reveal a sliver of olive skin and tantalizing collarbone. Two butter-soft leather gloves easily mask his robotic arm. The suit and his movie-star looks, chocolate hair styled back, Barnes could have stepped off Wall Street or even New York Fashion Week.

It takes Steve a moment to find his voice. “Was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he offers, swallowing roughly. He’s taken aback by his first good look at his best friend after two years, the first time seeing Barnes properly since 1945, but he’s never seen Barnes look this.

Bucky used to press his face to the glass of Macy’s, drooling over the suits and shirts and watches they would never afford.

Barnes shrugs nonchalantly, wandering closer. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks. “All my efforts to get to ya would be gone like smoke.”

God, his voice. It’s still the same. The same inflection, the same Brooklyn, the same Bucky.

Barnes smiles dazzlingly, Bucky’s smile, the one that always set his stomach aflutter. “I missed ya, Stevie.”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat, and, for a minute, he is almost fooled.

“You must think I’m a fool if you think I’ll fall for the ol’ pal Bucky routine. You’re not him,” Steve chokes out.

Barnes drops the smile as easily as one would drop a pebble, and, finally, Steve notices his eyes, hollow, striking blue-grey pits.

He finds nothing there; Barnes’s eyes are empty. Steve almost takes an uneasy step back.

“What was the point?” Barnes asks flatly. “I’ve got you right where I want you.”

“So, the murders of six innocent men was just to get my attention?” Steve asks, horror bubbling up like acid in the back of his throat.

Barnes tilts his head to the side, analyzing Steve almost contemplatively. He hums noncommittally before responding. “I was bored.”

Steve gapes at him, bewildered beyond comprehension. This _Barnes_ wasn’t what Steve was expecting. If it had been a violent and unpredictable Winter Soldier or a reserved and withdrawn Bucky, he would have been able to handle it, but this _Barnes_ …he’s almost like Bucky but almost not.

It’s like someone took the man Steve formerly knew and carved him out, leaving behind the shell that used to be James Buchanan Barnes.  

There’s nothing there, no soul, no empathy, no humanity. Just _emptiness_ , like Barnes’s eyes.

Steve breathes deeply, wrangling control of his rapid heartbeat that he knows that Barnes can hear, and schools his expression into something neutral. “Well,” he says slowly. “You have me where you want me.”

The other man smiles, and it is not as false as his previous smile. It is a wolf smile, and he circles Steve like a predator. “See,” Barnes drawls with exaggerated patience. “I don’t really want you. Bucky did; he was gone on you, loved you so much that it killed him, but there’s nothing left of him.”

Barnes’s words are a cruel punch to Steve’s heart, but he lets it roll off his back.

“Then why are you still here, in New York?” Steve asks.

“I’m bored.” Barnes fixes Steve with a blank stare.

Steve grits his teeth. “And killing helps you with that?”

“Killing helps me feel something,” Barnes replies matter-of-factly.

“What happened to you?” Steve whispers.

Barnes narrows his eyes. “Bucky died. I was cursed with this life.”

Before Steve can speak again, Barnes steps causally towards the edge of the roof and then steps down. Steve doesn’t bother to rush to the edge and search for him; he knows Barnes is gone.

And, Steve is left with a million unanswered questions more than he began with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters will be posted over the course of this week with the final chapter being posted on Friday. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/).


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your foe the Red Skull was playing with forces beyond his control. HYDRA was using magic darker than even Loki would have attempted,” Thor says darkly. “This is magic that corrupts the soul and mind.”

There’s a sharp rap at his door just before the crack of dawn, and Steve slips bleary-eyed from his bed and stumbles through his apartment. With sluggish movements, he unbolts the door and then pulls it open to reveal Natasha.

She slips through the doorway with all her usual grace, despite her casual sweats, not a single hair out of place, and Steve is abruptly reminded of when she slid into his apartment through his window not even two months ago.

“What?” he grumbles sharply, rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes.

Natasha cocks an eyebrow in amusement. “I thought you got up when the rooster crowed, old man.”

“It’s Sunday,” Steve says, as if that explains everything. “Sam and I usually sleep in on Sundays.”

“You’re already up,” Natasha points out dryly when Steve wrinkles his nose. “And I’ve got something to show you.” She lifts a satchel up that Steve hadn’t originally noticed.

“Is it about Barnes?” Steve trudges over to his kitchen counter to put on a fresh pot of coffee. When he turns around and leans his back against the counter, he notices that Natasha has remained quiet.

She glances down at the marble of the kitchen counter contemplatively. “It was something about Barnes’s words that you kept repeating. They sounded deliberate, carefully chosen.”

“ _Bucky died. I was cursed with this life_ ,” Steve recites, each word caressed with venom when it lifts from his tongue. He can still hear Barnes’s accent-less drawl echoing in his head.

“It was the word _cursed_ ,” Natasha clarifies. “When HYDRA had the Tesseract, you said they were using it to create energy weapons.”

“Yes.” His words are drenched in bitterness. “I remember that vividly.”

_The_ whirr _of HYDRA’s strange weapon as it powers up, punching the chilly air with its strange blue glow. The blast as it demolishes the side of the freight car. Bucky’s haunting scream as his hand slips from Steve’s._

“But they had the Tesseract at the same time they had Barnes at Azzano, and HYDRA had always been obsessed with magic and Asgard and her gods,” Natasha states, pulling thin files from her satchel and stacking them on the counter.

“Oh God,” Steve says, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach as he comes to Natasha’s conclusion. “You think they experimented on Bucky with the Tesseract.”

She nods slowly. “I think HYDRA used the Tesseract to create the Winter Soldier.”

At that moment, there is another knock at Steve’s apartment door, and he swivels his head to glance at Natasha. “Did you call Sam?”

She looks almost sheepish. “I had to call in back-up. We don’t know much about magic ourselves.”

“You called Strange?” Steve gapes.

“Someone better,” she replies as Steve opens the door.

“Thor?” Steve asks in confusion, stepping aside to allow the Asgardian inside. “I thought you were in London.”

Thor laughs, a booming but wonderful sound. “I was with my lovely Jane, but the Widow said you required my assistance, Steven,” he tells him warmly as he wraps Natasha in a hug. He exchanges the same quick embrace with Steve. “What magic is currently bewildering you?” he asks, settling down awkwardly on a tiny kitchen stool.

“I think you ought to see for yourself,” Natasha tells Thor, handing him a file.

The documents are in Russian, but Thor’s Allspeak allows him to read them with ease. As he gets deeper into the file, however, a furrow begins to form between his eyebrows, becoming more and more pronounced as he reads on. Finally, Thor glances up, looking quite disturbed, his lips turned down in a frown.

“Your foe the Red Skull was playing with forces beyond his control. HYDRA was using magic darker than even Loki would have attempted,” Thor says darkly. “This is magic that corrupts the soul and mind.”

Steve shudders.

“What else can you tell us, Thor?” Natasha asks.

“Not much, Lady Romanoff,” Thor replies apologetically. “I am afraid that I will have to return to Asgard to inquire about this kind of magic. Perhaps one of my father’s mages will be able to help.”

Thor stays long enough to enjoy the coffee that Steve had set to brew, but he steps out the door just as Steve is about to offer breakfast, mentioning something about having to contact Heimdall, Asgard’s gatekeeper.

“Thanks for everything so far,” Steve says gratefully.

“It’s my pleasure, Steven.” Thor smiles brightly before pulling the door shut behind him.

“Well, that brings us back to square one,” Natasha announces into the empty silence of the apartment. “Now, we can only wait for Thor to return.”

//

Thor does return.

Only three days later, he calls Steve to the Tower, where he’s currently staying with Jane while they’re in town.

Steve takes the subway to Manhattan and enters the Tower from the back entrance that only the Avengers and some select members of the Stark Industries staff has access to. It bypasses the lobby and leads straight to a private elevator bank where JARVIS has an open elevator waiting for Steve.

“Welcome, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS says coolly. “Ms. Potts and Sir are in Japan, but Sir said to _let Capsicle know that he has free range of the Tower and that he ought to visit more often_.”

The absurdity of hearing Tony’s words in JARVIS’s prim British accent has Steve chuckling. “Thanks, JARVIS,” he tells the AI, stepping into the elevator. “Anything else?”

“Mr. Odinson and Ms. Romanoff are waiting for you on your floor, Captain,” JARVIS says as the elevator doors slide shut behind Steve.

In two quick minutes, the elevator has hurtled up past the sixty-plus floors that composite SI’s offices and to the fifth residential floor that serves as Steve’s when he stays at the Tower on occasion.

Natasha and Thor are sitting on Steve’s carpeted floor, files spread out between them, when Steve enters. Natasha’s lips are pressed together tightly, and Thor’s expression is grim.

“Steven, welcome. We’ve been waiting for you,” Thor says as Steve takes a seat beside him.

“Hey, Thor. What did you learn in Asgard?” Steve asks cautiously.

“Your friend Barnes,” Thor begins darkly, “is cursed.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

Thor must take pity on Steve’s clueless expression, because he begins to explain. “My father’s most trusted mage searched through all the tomes that we have on the Tesseract or associated magic in Asgard’s largest collection, but she only managed to realize that your friend was given new life.”

“Something killed him, Steve,” Natasha says hoarsely, “and the Tesseract was used to bring him back.”

“It gave him the body of a god,” Thor speaks quietly, “but it also took something from him to make that exchange.”

“Oh God,” Steve mutters in horror as his mind races to make the connection. “You can’t mean…?”

But Natasha only nods. “It took him _from himself_. His mind, his memories, his empathy, anything that made Barnes the man you loved, the Tesseract burned it out of him. And HYDRA created the Winter Soldier from the hollow that remained.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/).


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Buck,” Steve pleads, allowing himself to be blindly hopeful for a moment, allowing himself to speak to the man he loves. “I know that you’re really in there somewhere. Please, this isn’t you. Just come back to me.”

In the pressing darkness of his bedroom, Steve snaps awake, sitting up against the leather headboard, legs swinging out to kick off the thin sheet covering his lower torso.

“Bucky,” he gasps upon recognition before slamming his mouth shut once his brain comes back online.

But Barnes, reclined back in the creaky old rocking chair across from Steve’s bed, only a sliver of his face ominously illuminated by the moonlight that streams in through the crack between the curtains, laughs, a harsh and grating sound that barely reaches Steve’s ears.

He begins to speak, and it is only now Steve that notices the _strangeness_ of Barnes’s voice, the offbeat inflection that doesn’t fit with any of his memories of Bucky. There is no Brooklyn in Barnes’s accent, just flat and ambiguously American.

“When they picked Bucky from the cells at Azzano, he had pneumonia, but he rattled the cage and drew their attention until they picked him over Jim Morita, who had never once stopped talking about the girlfriend he left back in Fresno.”

Steve’s breath hitches; Bucky had never told him this.

Barnes continues, “Zola pricked his skin with needles that burned hellfire through his veins and subjected him to unnatural, bright blue energy. They would conduct trial after trial on Bucky while Zola searched for the correct formula, leaving him convulsing on the table and foaming at the mouth. It was after weeks, shortly before you launched your rescue operation, that Bucky succumbed to both the hellfire and the lasting pneumonia. Zola was curious enough for one last ditch-effort to use the Tesseract, and he hit the jackpot.”

“Barnes,” Steve says as he slips from the bed and to his feet, approaching Barnes as one would approach a predator, slow and careful. He reaches a cautious hand to the other man’s shoulder.

Lightning-fast, Barnes latches onto Steve’s wrists and knocks Steve flat against the wall with such force that white plaster rains down on them, pinning him with his wrists wrenched above his head. Before Steve can blink, there is the cold steel of a blade against the tender skin of his neck, and Barnes’s is pressed up against him in a way that would have been arousing had this been any other occasion.

They both know that Steve can easily slip from Barnes’s grasp if he chooses to, but Steve relaxes his already tensed muscles and settles back against the wall.

Barnes leans across Steve’s body to whisper into his ear. “I was forged by pain incomparable to anything you will ever feel. I was tortured and victimized all because Bucky cared for you. His weakness eradicated him, and I don’t ever intend to let that happen to me. Don’t try to find a way to undo my curse; it’s more of a blessing to feel nothing than anything. But, if you interfere in any way, I won’t hesitate to allow myself to feel again and allow my pain and hatred to guide me against you.”

“Buck,” Steve pleads, allowing himself to be blindly hopeful for a moment, allowing himself to speak to the man he loves. “I know that you’re really in there somewhere. Please, this isn’t you. Just come back to me.”

He regrets his words immediately, knows he’s slipped up once he speaks.

Barnes _snarls_ , the sound belonging more to a creature than the human being that he is. “I’m going to enjoy watching you burn,” he promises menacingly. He steps away from Steve and, with a loud shatter of glass, hurtles through Steve’s bedroom window.

Steve slumps onto his bed dejectedly.

“What the fuck did I just do?” he asks softly, burying his face into his hands.

//

By morning, Steve has readied himself to face Natasha and Thor and warn them of Barnes’s threat, but Natasha’s rushed knock on his front door comes all too abruptly.

Steve whips the door open, and she storms in, wisps of scarlet hair floating in her haste.

“What _the fuck_ did you do, Steve?” she demands, angry in a way Steve hasn’t seen her in quite a while. “I told you not to confront Barnes.”

“He found me,” Steve begins slowly, something icy settling into the pit of his stomach. “What did he do?”

Natasha thrusts her phone into his face, and Steve takes a step back as he takes in the news headline features on the screen.

 _Brooklyn detective made victim by serial killer she was investigating,_ it reads.

“Marcela Lopez was found tied down to a Brooklyn pier this morning. Strangled by a hand missing fingerprints. By a metal hand. But her ultimate cause of death was ruled drowning. Before she died, she was skewered by several metal rods. Her skin was butchered; someone carved _until the end of the line_ into her flesh _over and over again_ ,” Natasha tells him, speaking so quickly that her words begin to blend together.

Steve laughs in near disbelief.

 _I’m going to enjoy watching you burn_ , Barnes’s voice repeats in his mind.

“He’s just getting started, isn’t he,” Steve gasps breathlessly. “There’s going to be more to come.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for my Stucky Scary Bang contribution was _WS magic AU in which the Winter Soldier is controlled and sustained with dark magic. every time he is resurrected he has fewer memories and less of himself_. 
> 
> I hoped I fulfilled that to the best of my ability. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, fear not. It will be turned into a series of similar length drabbles and one-shots.
> 
> As for now, find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Shoutout to my beta [lostthebucky](http://lostthebucky.tumblr.com/) and my cheerleader [Heidi](http://nikolailantsov.tk/) .

**Author's Note:**

> Did you catch the cameo at the end? 
> 
> More chapters will be posted over the course of this week with the final chapter being posted on Friday. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/).


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